My Sherlock Isn't You
by Sympathetic Wishes
Summary: Molly wakes up one day in an alternate universe where Sherlock is no longer on the side of the angels. Cruel. Vindictive. Sadistic and easily bored…he's completely fascinated by the girl that randomly appeared in his bathtub.


**VERY IMPORTANT: I need beta readers for my fanfics badly, so anyone interested in applying please see my profile for the application. The incentive is you'll get to see chapters A LOT earlier than the rest of my readers. Also, I will update a lot faster if I have someone I can talk the chapters out with.**

* * *

Water.

Molly felt water. That was her first sensation. Cold, crisp and…flowing heavily. Not light enough for a faucet…it sounded like…

Molly gasped awake, head bobbing up from the surface of an overflowing bathtub, soaked ponytail flipping back as she wiped the water from her eyes. Water leaked out of her nose, ears and mouth as she blinked multiple times to try and clear her vision.

Wh-what was going on?

After a few more seconds, her vision finally cleared and she was able to take in her surroundings. She was…in Sherlock's bathroom? Specifically the one that was in his loft at 221B Baker Street.

Molly shivered as the chill from his air conditioning blew in from the vents right above the tub.

Was his apartment this cold the last time she'd been here? Specifically when he requested her to help catalog the different combustion properties of tobacco ash. Did he usually keep it so cold so that when she breathed out she would see her own breath?

No, she didn't think so.

He must be trying some new experiment, Molly decided. Probably had put something in the morning tea that he had uncharacteristically served to her this morning at Bart's. She'd been so elated and happy that he was initiating communication _and_ a kind gesture all at once that she'd forgone all thoughts of suspicion or skepticism .

Really she should have known better, Molly chastised herself while laughing lightly and shaking her head. Of course Sherlock wouldn't ever pay attention to her unless he wanted to test or experiment with something. He was just that way. Nothing could be done about it. Molly didn't mind. She loved him for his idiosyncrasies and deeply empathized with his thirst for science. She hadn't dual majored in biology and anatomy in undergrad, and then attended medical school for her Doctor's license because she'd been interested in the potential pay she could rake in.

No, she loved medicine.

And had an innate knack for it, shocking Sherlock even sometimes with her adeptness for emergency medical procedures. One time she'd been walking with Sherlock back to 221B (she had "accidentally" bumped into him on her afternoon walk, and "just so happened" to have the package of extracted teeth from a murder victim the week before. The murder had taken place on the sea, near London but not technically in Scotland Yard's jurisdiction and so Lestrade had no power to go near the corpse, let alone allow Sherlock into the autopsy room. Molly had been assigned by the naval fleet to examine and autopsy the corpse at St Bart's, where she had had her video phone out to skype with Sherlock so he could direct her which parts of the corpse to show him. Not even longer than five minutes of staring at the water bloated Caucasian male, Sherlock asked her to extract all of the man's teeth, telling her to write whatever justification she had to write on her report, just so long as she brought the teeth to him for examination.

Molly had hesitated, weary of desecrating a corpse this way, but she rationalized that the corpse was already pretty disfigured from floating in the Thames for so long. And for all she knew, the corpse _could have_ had a micro tumor growing on the inside of his jaw bone that had caused paraneoplastic syndrome which _theoretically_ could have led to him having a brain aneurysm that had then caused him to lose coordination while he was leisure sailing and then immediately dropped dead in the water.

She had hoped that sounded credible because that was the justification she'd written on the report before extracting all 32 (he had his wisdom in still) teeth from the misfortunate man. She'd shown up the very next day at Sherlock's apartment with his requested package, all professionally cleaned of blood, taped and sealed in medical bags, but he hadn't been home. She'd waited a full three hours but he just didn't show up. Molly would have waited longer (she'd _always_ wait for Sherlock if he wanted her to) but her pager had rang then, informing her of an emergency car pile-up. All medical personnel had to come as soon as possible.

And then the rest of the week, _plus half of the next week,_ she'd been completely swamped at Bart's. Appendectomy, stroke to the optic nerve, heart attack, heart attack, heart attack and appendectomy again...The list just went on endlessly.

Point being, she hadn't been able to contact or answer or reply to any of Sherlock's texts that she'd been sure he must have left for her seeing as she hadn't seen or spoken to him in already 8 days then…

Nothing.

Not a single text or missed call from Sherlock.

So, she'd taken it upon herself to work her hours earlier in the morning half that day so that she could wait in her car from 1pm to 2pm when she knew Sherlock would come out to the corner store to buy cigarettes while John was taking his afternoon nap. He had the patches but still he liked to cheat sometimes, Molly had giggled to herself as she waited in the shade of her parked car under a tree, in the street adjacent to Baker St.

Like clockwork at 2pm, Sherlock had come out with his signature trench coat, hands in his pockets and his coattails turned up to cover his ears.

 _Adorable._

Molly had waited until he was on his return trip to bump into him so that it would seem more natural.

Either Sherlock didn't know or chose not to say anything about her stalker behavior (probably the latter, since she had done it just to give him what he'd asked of her) because as soon as she handed him the bag of extracted teeth, at the steps of 221B, he'd offered a cursory thanks before turning around to make his way into the apartment-

-or so he'd planned to do until at that very moment, a scream occurred on the street opposite of where they currently were.

Interest piqued, he'd turned back around to examine the source of the cry, only to already see Molly running through oncoming traffic, barely avoiding impact from a red sport's car, and then collision from a street car that thankfully stopped just in time. Molly had shouted a harried 'sorry!' before she finally made it to the opposing pavement where a man was very obviously hypoxic, face and lips blue from obstructed airways.

Molly, like a superwoman had asked if any of the surrounding curious/worried bystanders had anything alcoholic on them, like a flask or even alcohol based hand sanitizer –quickly receiving the first from a balding middle aged man. A flask of something strong, maybe vodka, considering the way Molly had winced upon sniffing the bottle's contents. It seemed concentrated enough. Molly had then taken the scissors from a nearby hotdog cart as well as a ballpoint pen from within her purse. She deconstructed the pen, pulling the inner plastic ink tube, cut off the part on the top that was clean of ink and then sanitized everything by poured alcohol from the flask onto them, before using the remainder on the man's clavicle, right where his esophagus met his chest. She cut _perfectly_ in one swift move to make a small incision, just right for the pen's tube, which she then inserted, and immediately the man's chest expanded, his body inhaling automatically even though he'd fallen unconscious.

Molly had no idea how amazing she had looked that day.

She was never aware of how people thought of her, being way too self-denigrating that she always assumed people were offended by something she'd unintentionally done wrong.

Right now she wondered the same thing as she pulled her completely sopping self out of Sherlock's bathtub, still wearing her medical white coat from this morning (Sherlock must have taken her here as soon as she'd fallen unconscious), feet making plopping sounds as they met the completely inundated bathroom tiles and the unfortunate rug that was nothing but a soppy soaked sponge. John's going to be pissed. Molly noted in wry humor as she disrobed her heavy dripping lab coat so that she could wring it out in the sink. She did the same with her ponytail, before stepping out tentatively into the living room of Sherlock's loft.

Damn, even this room's floor too, was completely drowned in chilled water. The red carpet was just like the bathroom's rug, ruined. Mrs. Hudson was going to have Sherlock's head on the spike by the end of the day.

Molly couldn't help sneezing as she hugged herself. _Man that air conditioner was still blasting strong._

She saw a nearby folded towel draped over the armchair, which she presumed Sherlock had left out for her (he did have his moments of compassion sometimes). Molly eagerly wrapped the big and fluffy white towel around herself as she made her way to the kitchen. Just like the living room, it was empty too.

Sherlock's bedroom and kitchen yielded the same result after she did some exploring. Why wasn't Sherlock home when his property value was literally depreciating as time went by? Shouldn't he care to at least retain _some_ construction value on his loft? At this rate the floors would be ruined forever, mildew setting in on the bottom of the floor boards.

Molly sneezed again. That was the fourth sneeze now. She knew she had to get out of here before she got the flu.

Molly made for the door right as it popped open on its own, in rushed John, face locked in mortification.

"What the bloody hell…" he exclaimed quietly, gaze looking down and not having noticed Molly yet. Stepping quickly out from behind him came the love of her life –Sherlock.

She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face even as she violently shivered within her white towel. Even if he was the one that had caused her to be in this predicament, even if he inadvertently caused her to get bronchitis.

She would always smile at seeing him.

Unlike John, Sherlock's eyes had immediately locked onto the soaked woman. His expression flashed differently than she would have expected: it showed confusion, irritation and _surprise_.

"What the hell did you do to my flat?!" he shouted indignantly at her, eyes tight with loathing and annoyance. His harsh tone had caused Molly to jump, shocked that Sherlock would speak to her this way. He'd **never** spoken to her like that before, even when at his most irate.

Molly's jaw was dropped in fear, shock, and anxiety that intuitively gave way to stuttering: "I-I-I didn't- y-you- you left– I- I-"

Sherlock stormed into the apartment, his heavy booted footsteps ringing and splashing into the watered floor. She thought he was coming to charge right at her but he sidestepped her quaking, shivering, and teeth chatting form, to get to the thermostat.

"Why is it set to 10 degrees Celsius?!" He whirled around to face Molly once again, hand twitching as if getting ready to strike her.

John who had noticed her with Sherlock's first question, now stepped around too. "This one of your…girls, Mr. Holmes?"

Molly knew there was something seriously wrong going on right now. Were they playing a prank on her? Before she could ask or even contemplate as to what was the point of this odd experiment, Molly felt the tell-tale symptom of dizziness from hypothermia; her energy completely vacated her as she fell to the floor.

* * *

Never in all his five years of serving under Sherlock Holmes had John Watson seen the man look _this pissed._

Fucking hell, with the way he was staring at her, the man looked like he wanted to eviscerate the unconscious girl currently sleeping in a blue hospital gown, in a patient's room at St. Bart's. They stood on both sides of her bed, looking down in disbelief and absolute bewilderment at the mystery woman. She'd had no ID or any other personally identifying item on her person. Sherlock had checked her to the extent of stripping her _naked,_ letting her lie naked and cold on the water logged ground as he checked all her pockets or even just a name sewn into one of them.

Nothing.

John Watson had taken it upon himself to monitor the girl's unconscious condition, very quickly deducing that she was hypothermic and needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible. He may have worked for the devil but John Watson still had a conscience and tried to do good deeds whenever he could _to atone for all the other things Sherlock made him do._

He had no choice. Sherlock Holmes had personally selected him from a list of professional physicians living near him and even as the simple 9-8 physician he'd been back then, John Watson had already heard of Sherlock Holme's name.

The world famous consulting criminal that _no one_ said no to.

He gave his expertise whenever someone needed something accomplished, instructing them on how to execute the perfect crime to get what they wanted. Mr. Holmes was the multi-billionaire and genius everyone in the underworld went to for help, maintaining his monopoly of supply and demand because he was the only person with access to his vast mind palace. Every knowledge of the world was in his mind, stored somewhere and the genius villain could call upon any of it at any given moment, in any given instant.

 _He was phenomenal._

But no matter how much money he earned, for some reason John wasn't privy to, Sherlock Holmes always chose to reside in this dingy 221B Baker street apartment. He could surpass gross domestic products of _countries_ and still the man chose to rent this tiny dingy apartment from a one Mrs. Hudson.

John had met her on a few occasions but had never spoken to her, no matter how many times he tried to make conversation. The tiny elderly woman simply refused to address or talk to anyone besides Sherlock. What amazed him was that the old woman could yell and chastise the consultant criminal _to a degree_ and no harm would ever come to her. He'd even on certain circumstances acquiesced to her censuring. This was the same man that had once beaten to death a **_six-year-old_** _beggar_ and the child's equally destitute father for _daring_ to ask _him_ for some loose change. The beggar must have been mentally ill, John had decided that day as he'd been forced to stand witness to Sherlock bludgeon the man to death with the homeless man's own walking cane, right there in the middle of the night, behind an alleyway in Scotland.

There's no _sane man_ that wouldn't recognize the face of Sherlock Holmes, professional consultant criminal.

Normally Sherlock killed his targets with guns or some other trigger weapon, fast and simple. But the homeless man happened to catch Sherlock in a bad mood. To present day, John still had no idea what had set Holmes off that night. He'd been fine in the afternoon when John had stood at his right side as the man presided over a new client. Someone that wanted his great Aunt to die and inherit her vast fortune, meaning all the relatives closer than him on the family tree would have to die too, without the cops suspecting he'd done anything. The guy, a short dodgy, twitchy fellow by the name of Stanford hadn't even finished speaking before Sherlock interrupted him, already telling him the plan he'd formulated, what steps to implement, how to execute and when specifically to do each step.

Then in two years, Stanford was owner of his deceased Aunt's million dollar estate, as well as all her other properties.

It was amazing. Sherlock had even somehow convinced either through manipulation or coercion the deceased Aunt's lawyer to forge up a new will where Stanford inherited everything. Originally a portion of the woman's properties had been directed towards an abused children's shelter.

Just another reason under Satan's hell list for when his judgement day came, John had noted despondently to himself mentally. Yes he had no choice but to take care of the psychopath (Sherlock had threatened his parents and friends the one time he'd casually hinted of picking another physician) but John still felt culpable nonetheless.

There was no excuse for standing by idly as a six year old was bludgeoned to death. Among the many other deplorable acts John had either abetted or turned an invisible eye towards working for Sherlock Holmes.

He was going to hell and John had no qualms with it.

His soul would _soil_ Heaven.

John thought this mentally as he watched his silent employer out of the corner of his eye: Sherlock was biting his thumb, with his other arm around his waist, hugging himself and forming a resting place for the arm that extended up to his lips as he chewed in deep thought. John only saw the psychopath do this when he was going through his withdrawal stage: it was part of the reason Sherlock had needed a personal 24/7 physician.

Sometime during his youth, before he was a multi-billionaire Sherlock had gotten deeply habitual to abusing recreational drugs. It had left lasting marks on his body that Sherlock was trying to shake off now. John had diagnosed and formed the perfect rehab plan: safe and gradual monitored usage of a drug cocktail that was a combination of all his addictions with a special added enzyme that would decrease his addiction, whenever he felt he needed a hit, with the least intense withdrawal symptoms.

Sherlock had agreed, and so John had his purpose and did it whenever the man wanted to get high, taking care of the withdrawal symptoms whenever the consultant criminal fell from his euphoria.

But right now Sherlock was not biting his thumb in withdrawal.

He was biting in pure seething enmity towards the sleeping brunette before them.

Shit. John grimly hoped the girl would never wake up from this unconscious state she'd gotten herself into from the fall at their apartment: the fall had caused a concussion in her brain, knocking her out further than the faint from hypothermia.

John looked at Sherlock again. The deep fury etched into the man's pale skin, the way the man's coal black irises shook as they never left sight of this girl –as if trying to disintegrate her with his gaze right here and now.

But then something worse showed up. John's countenance completely drained of color as he witnessed the corner of Sherlock's lips quirk upwards, in the slightest gradual smirk.

Oh god, he'd seen that look before: whenever Sherlock's sadistic hunger showed up, the need to torture someone until they were on the brink of death.

Hell, she was probably better off _dying_ in this hospital at this point, John thought dourly to himself.


End file.
